


turn a page i'm a book half unread

by mcrs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bookshop Owner Harry Potter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:51:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcrs/pseuds/mcrs
Summary: “How did you find me?” Draco demands, warming up to his anger and frustration as the initial shock begins to wear off.“Find you? You’re standing in my bookshop!” Potter splutters.Draco, unwilling employee in the Office of Runes and Symbols, wants some peace and quiet in Muggle London.





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes it really felt like the universe had tied him somehow to Potter.

Potter had been at his trial – and his mother’s, too. He’d testified that Narcissa had saved his life and allowed him to defeat the Dark Lord, and that Draco too had played his role, hesitating to identify Potter at the manor and leaving room for Professor Snape to kill Dumbledore. He’d saved them from Azkaban without once looking either of them in the eye or addressing them directly. Draco had felt as though he were merely a spectator, observing Potter essentially deciding his fate – for then, when wounds were fresh and stinging, no one dared contradict the Boy Who Lived (Twice). And so, bluntly stating in front of the entire Wizengamot that Draco had been unable to perform the task the Dark Lord had set him as punishment for his father’s mistakes, Harry Potter had saved Draco Malfoy’s life. Again.

It had been a bitter pill to swallow, then. Draco had never made a choice in his life; always followed his parents’ orders, keeping up the Malfoy name. He’d ruined his own life, his own reputation, his own _future_ , pursuing a cause his parents supported, but in which his own belief had wavered from the age of fifteen. Even at his own trial, defended by a boy he’d never asked to help him, his choice was ripped away. The Ministry froze the Malfoy assets, confiscated the Malfoy estate, put Mother under house arrest and placed Draco in the Office of Runes and Symbols. It had been a lenient punishment, given the blood on Malfoy hands, and Draco would likely have loved working at the Office of Runes and Symbols had it been his own choice. As it were, he felt an edge of resentment every morning that he stepped into the fireplace.

After a year, Draco had finally gathered the courage to swallow his pride and send an owl to Potter.

 _Potter_ , he had written. _Thank you for testifying for my mother and me. I owe a great deal to you._

(The _you saved my life again_ remained unwritten, but Draco knew Potter would know.)

The owl had returned with the note unopened. Potter did not want his thanks. It made Draco feel a little more unsettled with his place in the world, that even his thanks were no longer acceptable in the wizarding community. Merlin knows he faced enough cold stares, averted gazes and whispers at work.

That’s how he’s ended up here, in fact.

Draco Malfoy, pureblood, ex-Death Eater, is standing on a street in Muggle London.

It had been Blaise’s idea, indirectly. He’d not played any role of note in the War but had made flippant anti-Muggle and Muggleborn remarks to enough people during Snape’s stint as Headmaster that, in combination with his Slytherin and Pureblood status, had gained him an unpopular reputation. Still, Blaise was used to chatter and disdain, having an unconvicted serial killer for a mother, so it hardly bothered him.

(“It’s different for you,” Draco had complained. “You’ve been dealing with this your whole life. You’re used to it.” Blaise had rolled his eyes.

“Thanks for your sympathy,” he’d said sarcastically. “Merlin, you need to grow a thicker skin. Next thing you know you’ll have quit the wizarding world entirely and started shopping in Oxford Street like a common Muggle.” He’d snorted at the very idea of Draco in the Muggle world.)

The idea had planted itself in Draco’s mind and simply would not let up. The idea of stepping foot in the Muggle world was simultaneously hugely frightening and strangely exciting. It still felt forbidden, a place he as a pureblood, as a _Malfoy_ , should never _deign_ to step foot, but the longer the idea had to manifest itself, the more exciting it seemed. A whole world at his fingertips where no one knew him, or of his past, or of his family!

The only problem had been that Draco is a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor. That is to say, it took a few weeks for him to build up the courage to step foot in this unfamiliar world with its unfamiliar customs in which he’d almost certainly make a fool of himself. Draco’s not used to that.

But here he stands now, in a quieter back alley in central London, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black trousers under his long peacoat. The narrow alley is home to a number of small, independent shops. It reminds him slightly of Diagon Alley, and he feels a strange pang of wistfulness. The street is still to recover fully from the damage sustained during the War, and Draco can’t walk down it without enduring barely-concealed whispers of contempt.

Draco takes a deep breath and begins to walk along the alley in what he hopes is an extremely casual and nondescript manner, glancing into each shop as he walks by. He passes a shop that sells general trinkets, an antiques store and a shop that sells expensive home furnishings that his mother would take a fancy to were they not Muggle, before he comes to a small bookshop squashed in between the home furnishings shop and another store Draco does not care to look into. In its small display window, the bookshop has old, leather-bound books by the dozen, placed carefully so each book’s title can be read. Draco has to admit, although he’s never heard of _101 Dalmatians_ , the beautiful binding of the book is enough to make him itch to buy it.

Draco, though under six feet in stature (as Blaise never fails to remind him), has to duck to get through the low entrance to the shop, but is able to straighten up once inside. It’s what he would describe as cosy if he’d ever known a place like that, with books piled on the floor, shelves from floor to low ceiling crammed with an assortment of books, squashy armchairs strewn around wherever room remains for them, and an oddly pleasant smell of old books and fresh linen. A smile creeps across Draco’s face before he can help himself as the warmth of the shop laps at his skin. He likes this place.

Books have always been close to Draco’s heart. As an only child with busy parents, all he’d had to entertain himself was flying and reading, and he’d got very good at both. It’s still a sore point for him that he had continually come a close second to Hermione Granger at school, but now with almost no friends to speak of and nowhere to go in the wizarding world, books have become his solace again.

Draco ambles over to a shelf set into the middle of the old stone wall, scanning through the titles. They’re mostly old Muggle classics he’s read already, but he picks up a beautifully-bound _Emma_ anyway, turning it over in his hands and admiring the binding before opening it at a random page and beginning to read.

“Malfoy?” a shocked voice says, startling him out of his reading. Startling him so much, in fact, that he drops the probably-quite-expensive book, scrambling to pick it up before looking at his verbal attacker. Who in the name of Merlin’s left bollock would find him in this quiet, out-of-the-way bookshop in _Muggle London_?

Standing there, black hair unruly and slightly longer than it had been at Draco’s trial five years ago, green eyes wide behind wire-rim glasses, is none other than Harry Potter.

“Do you have a tracking charm on me?” Draco blurts. Potter’s brow furrows.

“What?” he asks.

“How did you find me?” Draco demands, warming up to his anger and frustration as the initial shock begins to wear off. This was supposed to be his _own time_ , where no one would know who or what he was.

“ _Find_ you? You’re standing in my bookshop!” Potter splutters.

“ _Your_ bookshop?” Draco’s eyes narrow. “What, so now every establishment you walk into belongs to the Boy Who Lived? The Saviour of the wizarding world? Do you want me to bow at your feet as well?” Potter’s eyes flash with anger for a moment, before settling on something more like…discomfort.

“No,” he says sharply, “this is my bookshop. I own it. I run it.” Draco’s shock levels, which have almost dissipated, rise back up again.

“What do you mean, you run a bookshop?” he asks.

“What I mean when I say I run a bookshop is I like to strip naked and run down The Mall on the first Wednesday of every month,” Potter says sarcastically. “I run a bloody bookshop, Malfoy. This bookshop.”

“Since when do you run a bookshop?” Draco demands. For some reason, the fact that he hadn’t known Potter runs a bookshop irritates him.

“A few years,” Potter says, and then suspiciously, “why are you here?”

“I-“ Draco stops abruptly. What’s he supposed to say to that? _Oh, you know, I’m absolutely shunned in the wizarding world and fancied a taste of being free from judgement and able to speak to people, and who do I run into but Harry bloody Potter, my saviour, everyone’s saviour, Boy Who Lived At Least Twice That We Know Of_? He shifts uncomfortably. “Fancied a walk.” Potter laughs incredulously.

“Come off it, Malfoy,” he says. “In Muggle London? Right.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I got lost on the way,” Draco snaps, embarrassment hot in his veins. He’s sure Potter knows why he’s in Muggle London, or can at least hazard an educated guess. “Why do _you_ own a bookshop in Muggle London when you’re our blessed saviour? I’m sure they’ll let you be Minister if you just ask.” He laughs bitterly, thinking of his own situation. He’d be laughed out of the Ministry if he so much as asked for a quill.

“Believe it or not, Malfoy, some of us don’t _want_ power and glory,” Potter says, and he sounds tired. In fact, now that Draco takes a proper look at him, he _looks_ tired. He’s dressed in an old-looking oversized jumper and slightly fraying jeans, with bags under his eyes and his hair wilder and more unkempt than Draco’s ever seen it. He wonders when Potter last looked in a mirror.

It’s strange seeing Potter again. Now that Draco’s initial and secondary shocks have both worn off, a bubble of curiosity and something else he can’t quite identify is rising up inside him. He hasn’t had a proper conversation with Potter since…well. Since Potter saved him from the Fiendfyre five years ago. He’s never got to explain himself, or to ask why Potter had defended him at the trial with nothing to go off. Yes, freshly-sixteen-year-old Draco hadn’t been able to commit an act of murder, and yes, he’d hesitated to identify Potter at the manor, but those weren’t acts of bravery. They were acts of cowardice, fear and self-preservation, and Potter knew that.

He wants to ask why Potter hadn’t opened his owl. It had felt like a second rejection, first at eleven when Draco’s offer of friendship was shot down, and then at eighteen when his (albeit far too late) gratitude had been rejected. Potter’s the only person that has ever rejected Draco, and to say it’s a sore spot would be a slight understatement.

“Right,” he says, having almost forgotten to respond. Potter’s eyeing him oddly, and Draco shakes himself out of his thoughts and back into reality. He, Draco Malfoy, is standing in Harry Potter’s Muggle bookshop in the middle of Muggle London. He puts _Emma_ back on the shelf. “Well. Don’t let me keep you.”

“You’re in _my_ bookshop,” Potter reminds him. Draco scowls, and walks away without another word, angry and embarrassed and hotly disappointed that his venture into Muggle London hadn’t given him the freedom from his past he so craved.

“Wait!” he hears, just as he reaches the low archway at the exit of the shop. Draco stops, fingers outstretched, reaching for the doorknob. “Maybe we could- uh, I mean, do you want to…get a coffee?” Potter sounds hesitant. 

Draco surprises himself by actually _wanting_ to. He’s desperately lonely, yes, but hadn’t thought he was so desperately lonely that he’d willingly spend time with _Harry Potter_. It sends a fresh wave of embarrassment and shame washing over him, that he’s being offered an olive branch by Potter, yet another reminder of how pitiful his life has become. But Draco is still a Malfoy, and though that name no longer holds any value in society, he still has his pride.

“No thank you,” he says curtly, and pushes open the wooden door quickly, letting the sudden coolness distract him from the confusing mix of emotions battling for dominance in his mind, anger and shame and such desperate, desperate loneliness.

 

-

 

“Have you seen this rune before?” is how Malfoy is greeted when he walks into the office on Monday morning. He sets his briefcase down at his feet and takes the piece of parchment Miraphora is waving under his nose, frowning at it. It’s a rough drawing of a rune which looks unfamiliar to him.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “Why?” Miraphora sighs, whisking the piece of parchment out of his hands.

“There have been two carvings of it so far,” she says, as Draco picks his briefcase back up and puts it down on his desk, flipping it open and rifling through the papers in there to find the translation he’d been working on last week. “We think it’s new. The problem is so far both times it’s shown up have been at scenes of Muggle deaths, and it’s starting to look suspicious.” Draco frowns.

“Has Eduardo seen this yet?” he asks. Miraphora nods.

“He was hoping you’d have some insight into it,” she says. “If you haven’t seen it before take it to Law Enforcement Patrol and ask for the case reports on those Muggle deaths, it might help you decode it. I have to go to a meeting with the Department of Magical Transportation because someone’s been carving _isaz_ into brooms.” Draco hides a smile. Carving _isaz_ , or ice, into a broom would probably have some humorous effects.

With that, Miraphora bustles out of the room, dropping the piece of parchment with the new rune on Draco’s desk as she goes and leaving Draco alone in the small, cramped office. He sighs, closing his briefcase and placing it on the floor. He really doesn’t want to go to Law Enforcement and ask them for case reports. This office, small and cramped though it may be, is the only place he’s not treated as something highly unpleasant that is to be disposed of as quickly as possible. Yes, Miraphora and Eduardo still aren’t exactly fond of him, but they at least recognise his talent for runes and are cordial, which these days is practically a declaration of love to Draco.

Luckily, Magical Law Enforcement Patrol are on the same level of the Ministry as Runes and Symbols, both part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, so Draco doesn’t have far to go. He keeps his head down as he walks the carpeted hallways of the Department, unable to miss the wide berth everybody who crosses his path gives him.

“Mr Malfoy,” Helga Smith says in a clipped tone when he knocks on the door. “May I help you?”

“I’d like the case reports on the Muggle deaths involving this symbol,” Draco says, his tone matching hers, handing over the piece of parchment. Smith takes it and frowns.

“There’s been another one,” she says, thrusting the parchment back at Draco. “All of them have been handed over to the Auror Office.” Draco’s stomach sinks. If there’s one set of people he doesn’t want to deal with at the Ministry, it’s the Aurors.

“Right,” he says. “Thank you.” Smith shuts the door in his face. Draco stares at it for a moment before straightening up, taking a deep breath and turning on his heel towards the Auror Office.

“Yeah?” Ron Weasley says, pulling open the door when Draco knocks. When he sees who it is, a look of disdain falls across his face. “Oh,” he says. “It’s you.” Draco grits his teeth.

“I’d like the case reports on the Muggle deaths involving this symbol,” Draco says shortly. Weasley snatches the piece of parchment from Draco’s outstretched hand.

“Do you know what it is?” he says.

“No,” Draco says.

“Right,” Weasley mutters. “It’s great having an Office of Runes and Symbols that not only employs Death Eaters, but employs Death Eaters that can’t do their work properly.” Draco grits his teeth harder, clenching one fist by his side where Weasley can’t see. He mustn’t rise to this.

“It’s a new symbol,” Draco manages through his gritted teeth. “I only got it this morning.” Weasley pretends not to hear him.

“I’ll get the case reports and copy them,” he says, turning around and shutting the door in Draco’s face. Draco sighs, knowing he’ll be kept waiting far longer than necessary. A Doubling Charm takes seconds.

Sure enough, Weasley reappears about ten minutes later holding a stack of parchments.

“Here,” he says, thrusting it at Draco. “Tell me as soon as you figure it out.” He slams the door without waiting for a response. 

"Of course, _sir_ ," Draco mutters bitterly under his breath, turning around to head back to his office.

 

-

 

Draco spends the whole week poring over the case reports of the three Muggle deaths. As far as he can tell, the rune and the fact that they’re Muggles are the only things that link them, which is very little help to him in trying to decipher it. One was murdered in Sheffield, one in Aberdeen, and the most recent one in Wrexham, two were female and one was male, one found in his home, one in a park and one in an alleyway. Draco’s beginning to wonder whether the _rune_ could be the cause of death, but that didn’t make sense either, since runes only work on the objects they’re carved into and the runes were found _by_ the bodies, not on them.

“Draco,” Eduardo says, jolting him out of his thoughts. He’s standing by the door, briefcase in hand, placing his bowler hat on his head. “It’s late. You should go home.” Draco glances at the enchanted windows, and sure enough, more stars than Londoners would ever see are twinkling back at him.

“I will,” Draco says vaguely, sifting through the stack of notes he’s accumulated on runes and their healing powers. There _must_ be something about reversing their healing powers amongst all of this.

“It’s late, Draco,” Eduardo repeats, his voice a little less brisk this time. “Go home. The work will still be here on Monday.” The message is clear.

“Right,” Draco says, getting to his feet and picking up his briefcase.

“See you on Monday,” Eduardo says, tipping his hat, and he closes the door behind him with a small click. Draco’s left standing in the dark office, staring at several teetering stacks of parchment on his desk. It won’t hurt to take a few of them with him, no matter what Eduardo says. It’s not like he has anything better to do with his weekend, Draco thinks bitterly, as he sweeps a few piles of parchment into his briefcase. He could either go and visit Mother (again) or try and figure something out about this new rune.

 _Or,_ a little voice in the back of his mind says, _you could go back to Potter’s bookshop_.

Draco, try though he might, hadn’t been able to fully get Potter out of his head since their encounter last week. He’s been telling himself it might be something to do with having Weasley sending memos every day asking if he’s made any progress on the rune yet. Draco tries not to interact with his ex-classmates much – the memories are both too shameful and painful for him. Realistically, though, Potter is the first person to have shown any remote interest in spending time with Draco since the Battle, and that’s why he keeps tugging at Draco’s mind.

And really, would it be so bad to spend time with Potter? Yes, he’s infuriating and Draco seems to be the only one who can see any flaws in him, but they lived through the worst of times together and knew things about each other very few others did. And it _would_ be nice to spend some time in the Muggle world again, to not hear whispers every time he takes a single step outside. It would mean swallowing his pride, but that seems to be a common theme surrounding Potter, and being a Malfoy sometimes means gracefully admitting defeat.

Draco, suddenly nervous, snaps his briefcase shut and pulls his coat on. Maybe Potter won’t even be at the bookshop anymore, he thinks, as he makes his way towards the Ministry exit into Muggle London. It is quite late after all.

As soon as he makes it to the surface, the cold air penetrating every gap in his clothing, he Disapparates, not trusting himself to stick to his decision if given any time to think. He teeters a little on his Apparition into the alleyway out of nervousness, stumbling just a little to keep his balance.

“Malfoy?” he hears a muffled voice – Potter’s voice – say in confusion. Excellent. Now it looks like he can’t Apparate properly after six years of holding his licence.

“Potter,” he says, spotting Potter hurrying towards him from his bookshop, scarf wrapped tightly around his mouth and nose.

“What are you doing here?” Potter asks. He sounds genuinely surprised, which makes Draco feel a little better. Potter hadn’t expected him to come back.  

“I…” Draco takes a deep breath. “I was wondering if you’d like to go for a coffee.” Potter looks at him for a moment, and Draco feels oddly exposed.

“I think it’s a bit late for coffee,” Potter says eventually. Draco’s heart sinks. He’s never swallowing his pride again. “But we could go for a drink?” Draco frowns.

“That’s what I asked,” he says.

“No, you said a coffee,” Potter says.

“Is coffee not a drink?” Draco says indignantly. Potter rolls his eyes.

“Going for a drink implies alcohol,” he says. “To a bar, or pub, or something.”

“In- here, you mean?” Draco hopes the meaning comes across. He doesn’t think his Malfoy blood would physically allow him to say _please say you mean Muggle London, because I can’t enter any wizarding establishment_. Potter gives him a look that Draco can’t quite decipher.

“I know a good place just down the road,” he says, and relief washes over Draco. Until-

“Oh,” Draco says. “I don’t have any Muggle money.” Potter’s eyes crinkle slightly around the corners, and Draco thinks he might be smiling underneath that thick scarf.

“Oh, yeah, that old trick,” Potter says, setting off down the alleyway. “You can pay me back in wizarding money. I haven’t been to Gringotts in months.”

They don’t talk on the way to the place Potter’s leading them to. It turns out to be a pub, and it’s as small and cosy as the bookshop. Draco’s hit with a wave of warmth when the door opens and a laughing couple walk out, the woman holding the door for him with a smile.

“Thank you,” he says, and she tips her head with a grin before following the man into the night. Draco feels much warmer now, and he’s certain it’s not all to do with being inside the pub.

They sit down at a small booth by the window opposite the bar, and Potter asks what Draco would like to drink as they remove their many layers.

“I’m- I haven’t really- this is my first time in a Muggle pub,” Draco admits. He hates looking incompetent, but in the Muggle world, he is. He braces himself for Potter to laugh derisively, to mock Malfoy for his pureblood upbringing and intolerance for Muggle things, but it doesn’t come.

“Have you had any Muggle alcohol before?” Potter asks. He doesn’t seem to care.

“Um…port, I think,” Draco says. Potter laughs, and his eyes crinkle around the corners like they did in the alleyway. Draco thinks it suits him.

“Don’t ever try and order that in your local pub,” he says. “I’ll just get you a beer.”

“Okay,” Draco says, unsure what he’s just agreed to. Potter goes up to the bar to order, leaving Draco on his own, and for lack of something better to do, he watches the Muggles go past outside. They look so carefree, bundled up in their many layers, laughing as they make their way down the street. Draco suddenly wishes he could have just one evening where he too could laugh freely as he walks down the street arm in arm with a friend.

“Here,” Potter says, placing the beer down in front of Draco, who eyes it warily. “It won’t kill you, you know.”

“Right,” Draco says, taking a sip. It tastes bitter, and he’s not sure if he likes it. He notices Potter eyeing him as he drinks, and says, “I prefer Butterbeer.” Potter smiles.

They sit in silence for a while. Draco’s not sure what to say, and he thinks Potter might feel the same. He settles for passing the time by sipping slowly on the bitter drink in front of him.

“How are things?” Potter says eventually.

“Fine,” Draco says. He’s certainly not going to tell Potter the truth.

“You still working at the Ministry?” Draco pulls a face.

“Yes,” he mutters. _I don’t have much choice_.

“I’d hate it too,” Potter says quietly. He must have noticed the face.

“Did you ever get- you know. They must have offered you something,” Draco says, unable to stop his curiosity. He’s always wondered why Potter hadn’t gone on to become an Auror. After all, defeating the Dark Lord is one hell of a qualification.

“They did,” Potter says, staring steadfastly at his drink as he swirls the last dregs around. “I never fancied a Ministry position.” Well, there’s the difference, Draco thinks bitterly. _He_ would have loved a Ministry position, if it had been on his own terms, offered to him rather than forced upon him.

“Right,” Draco says, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “So you opened a bookshop instead.” Potter smiles.

 Yeah, I did,” he says.

“You were never much of a book person,” Draco observes.

“Oh, I don’t know, there was one book in sixth year that I was quite partial to,” Potter says jovially, then stops, aghast. “I- sorry, I didn’t think-” Draco waves the apology away. Sure, Potter may have sliced Draco open with the second most painful curse he’d ever experienced, but he’d also saved Draco’s life numerous times. And, in fairness, Draco _had_ been trying to Crucio him.

“At least you didn’t try to use an Unforgivable,” Draco says, with a brave attempt at nonchalance. Potter stops, then grins hesitantly.

“No, I suppose I didn’t,” he says. They lapse into silence again, and Draco takes a few more sips of his drink.

“Why Muggle London?” Draco asks eventually. Potter runs his finger around the rim of his glass as he seemingly weighs up how to answer.

“No one knows me here,” He says finally. Draco frowns. That’s _his_ reason for being in Muggle London. Potter’s famous, beloved, and would certainly never be spat at in public. Why in the name of Merlin would he want to avoid that?

“But you’re famous,” Draco says. “The Boy Who Lived, the Golden Boy, the Vanquisher of Evil.”

“Do they really call me that?” Potter says, looking like he’s trying his best to suppress a laugh. “The Vanquisher of Evil?”

“I’ve heard it once or twice,” Draco says, and when Potter finally laughs he smiles too. It is quite a funny name, he supposes.

“That’s exactly why I want to be in Muggle London,” Potter says after a while. “They don’t know me as a saviour. I’m not anyone special here. No one pays me the slightest attention when I walk down the street. I’m not being begged for autographs, exclusive interviews, every detail of my private life scrutinised in the Prophet.”

For some reason, Draco feels compelled to say, “I don’t read the Prophet.” Potter grins at him.

“Too right,” he says. “I’m sure they print some nasty stories about you.” Draco’s barely surprised by Potter’s bluntness, and almost…relieved. It feels almost _freeing_ , like he can tell Potter the truth and not expect him to be repelled. Potter knows more than the Prophet and its readers ever will, anyway, and yet he’s sat here opposite Draco, having a drink with him. Something warm courses through Draco’s veins, and it takes him a moment to identify it, something he hasn’t felt in years. _Safety_.  

“Yes, they do,” he says. Potter smiles.

“I remember the stories they used to print about me,” he says. “When I was in the Triwizard Tournament, Rita Skeeter published a story claiming I was twelve years old and cried every night over my parents.”

“I remember that,” Draco says, grinning. His grin fades suddenly, though. “I had a field day with that one.” Potter shrugs.

“You and most of the school,” he says. “You get used to these kinds of things.”

“They never refer to me by name in headlines,” Draco admits after a moment. “I’m always just ‘Death Eater’.” Potter hums.

“Must be a bit confusing, since there’s quite a lot of Death Eaters still walking around,” he says.

“Not that many outside of Azkaban,” Draco points out. Potter inclines his head, conceding. Neither of them mention that Potter’s the reason Draco isn’t in Azkaban, but Draco feels the unspoken fact like an uncomfortable weight on his chest.

“Is that why you’re in Muggle London, then?” Potter asks. Draco bites his lip, debating for a brief moment before deciding he’s too far gone now and nodding. Potter nods too, almost absent-mindedly, and drains the last of his drink.

“Well, I should be getting home,” he says, standing up.

“Me too,” Draco says, following suit, although he’s slightly disappointed. He wraps himself up in his layers again, and follows Potter out of the pub into the street.

“Well,” Potter says.

“Goodbye,” Draco says. He’s not sure whether to hold out a hand for Potter to shake, or if that would be too formal. He decides against it, opting not to expose his hand to the bitter wind.

“If you want to see more of Muggle London, I’ll show you around,” Potter offers. Draco smiles, a slight swooping feeling starting in his stomach that he chooses to ignore.

“I’d like that,” he says.

“See you, then,” Potter says.

“See you,” Draco echoes, watching Potter trudge back along the street until he’s lost in the crowds of Muggles. Draco himself takes a few steps into the nearest alleyway before Disapparating back to his flat.

He’s not entirely sure what just happened.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco makes little headway with the rune over the weekend. He manages to dig up some old runic manuscript about the use of runes as curses but it’s so ancient and obscure that it takes him the whole of Sunday to translate, with the help of several yellowing tomes. It’s a promising lead, though, that runes were allegedly used to curse, although the manuscript also clarifies that the rune must be worn by or in some other way touching the cursed individual, which doesn’t fit the Muggle deaths as far as he’s aware.

He goes back over the information he’s got. Two females and a male, three different cities in three different countries and three different locations. Could someone be doing some sick UK-wide murder, one in every country? Surely not, that’s ridiculous. But then again, he can’t rule anything out entirely, or he might miss something important. The whole situation is very odd, anyway.

Eduardo’s already in the office when Draco gets there an hour early. He doesn’t look up as Draco walks in, sifting through piles of parchment on his desk.

“You shouldn’t take your work home with you,” he says. “You need a work-life balance."

“I just wanted to keep looking,” Draco says, putting his briefcase down on his desk and pulling out several stacks of parchment and one of the old manuscripts he’d found in Mother’s extensive library (or what she had been permitted to keep of it, anyway) when he’d snuck in on Saturday night, not having the energy for conversation with her .

“Did you find anything?” Draco walks over and hands him the manuscript, flicking his wand to make it open on the right page.

“This is all,” he says. “That runes have been used to curse.”

“You think it could be a curse?” Eduardo muses. Draco shrugs.

“It could be anything,” he says. Eduardo nods, still scanning the manuscript.

“There’s been another one,” he says, almost absent-mindedly, and Draco’s stomach drops.

“We need to work faster,” he says.

“We need to get it right,” Eduardo reminds him, putting the manuscript down and picking up a few pieces of parchment. “You speak French, right?” Draco nods. Mother had considered French an important part of his upbringing, given his heritage. “Good. This one was killed in France. They sent it over our way to ask if we’d seen the rune before.” He thrusts the parchment at Draco, who takes it and scans it.

It’s another male, making it two for two. Killed in France, and found at a train station by the station guard who had come to unlock it in the morning. Another country, another location.

“Was the guard questioned?” Draco asks, sifting through the parchments and finding no notes on it. Eduardo nods.

“Nothing worth mentioning,” he says. Just then, Miraphora bursts into the office.

“Have you heard-” she starts breathlessly.

“There’s been another one,” Eduardo supplies, and she hesitates for a moment before nodding, clearly annoyed that her moment was stolen from her.

“I just spoke to Ron at the Auror Office,” she says. “They want to talk about it with one of us, but I don’t know where we’ve got to because I was stuck with the bloody _isaz_ brooms all week. One of you will have to do it.”

“You were schoolmates with Mr Weasley, were you not?” Eduardo says. Draco looks up in surprise. Surely Eduardo knows, or can at least make the educated guess, that Draco and Weasley don’t exactly see eye to eye?

“I was,” Draco says carefully. “However, we were…not close.”

“Good,” Eduardo says. Draco blinks. Has he lost his mind?

“Good?” he echoes.

“Yes, good,” Eduardo says. “Having bad history with one another means you can speak to him more candidly than I can.” Draco almost wants to laugh. This is ridiculous – Weasley _hates_ him, and the feeling is certainly mutual. They can’t possibly talk about this without at best an argument, at worst potentially killing each other.

“You’re the more experienced, though,” Draco says, hoping he’s successfully keeping the desperation out of his voice.

“You took the case home at the weekend – you’ve worked on it longer than I have,” Eduardo says, in a tone that indicates the conversation is over.

“As you wish,” Draco says bitterly, feeling a spike of hot anger course through him. He grits his teeth and turns to Miraphora. “What time did Wea- Mr Weasley say he wanted to talk?”

“As soon as possible,” Miraphora says.

“Excellent,” Draco mutters, gathering his papers together and Summoning the manuscript from Eduardo. “Well. I’d better be off then.” Miraphora inclines her head by way of a goodbye and Eduardo barely notices, already immersed in his parchments again. Well, fuck them too, then. 

Draco stalks out of the office and down the corridors to the Auror Office, rapping on the door harder than necessary out of his annoyance and hurting his knuckles. Jean Kirke opens the door.

“What do you want?” she says brusquely.

“I’ve been summoned by Mr Weasley,” Draco says shortly. Kirke narrows her eyes at him for a second, then disappears back into the room. A few moments later, Weasley comes to the door.

“What?” he says, sounding annoyed. “I didn’t send for you.”

“You asked for someone from the Office of Runes and Symbols,” Draco says, fighting to keep his voice calm.

“Right, so of course they sent you,” Weasley says, clearly irritated. Draco thinks as loudly as he can that the feeling is mutual, in case Weasley happens to be a secret Legilimens. “Great. Well. Come in, I guess.” He pushes the door open, and Draco gets his first proper look at the Auror Office.

It’s much bigger than his office (naturally), with around ten of the same heavy oak desks that every Ministry department has. The walls are papered floor to ceiling with yellowing pictures of criminals screaming silently, maps, and other pieces of parchment Draco doesn’t read as his eyes slide to other parts of the room. A fire is crackling in a big marble fireplace on the far side of the room, and Weasley leads him to the desk closest to the fire, Summoning a chair for Draco to sit in.

“So,” Weasley says. “There’s been another murder.”

“In France,” Draco supplies.

“Yeah,” Weasley says. He pauses for a moment, and then, “you speak French?”

“Yes,” Draco says.

“Should have figured,” Weasley mutters darkly. Draco bites back the retort on the tip of his tongue. That doesn’t even make any _sense_ as an insult. “Well, I assume you haven’t got any further with the rune.” It’s a statement, not a question, and Draco is loath to prove him right.

“Not on what it is, no,” he says, through gritted teeth.

“Right,” Weasley says. “Well, let me tell you what we’ve got, then. We’ve traced all exits from the UK to the continent since the last murder, and narrowed down the list of suspects.” He gestures to seven pictures on the wall behind them, and Draco turns in his chair to look.

“Numbers one to four are unlikely, but we can’t rule them out,” Weasley continues, as Draco scans the photographs. They’re all shifting uncomfortably in their frames. “Five and seven are relatively unknown to the Ministry. And six is an old friend of yours, I believe.” Draco’s eyes flick over to the second-last photograph in the line-up and his stomach curls up. There, staring defiantly back at him, is Dolohov.

“He’s supposed to be in Azkaban,” Draco says, cursing himself as a note of panic enters his voice. Dolohov had been one of the most merciless of the Death Eaters, and one Draco had always feared above others. Yes, Bellatrix had been crueller still, but she was also his aunt.

“Yeah,” Weasley says, not bothering to disguise the disgust in his voice, “he was until last month. He was given early release on account of his _extremely_ ill health.” His last words drip with sarcasm. “Unfortunately, we can’t find him anywhere.”

“So you think he’s the murderer?” Draco asks.

“Well, let’s see,” Weasley says, leaning back in his chair. “He’s a known Death Eater, big supporter of You-Know-Who, has been in Azkaban numerous times, and all the victims have been Muggles. Sounds like a done deal, if you ask me.”

“And what, you think he’s trying to bring back the Dark Lord’s legacy?” Draco scoffs. Weasley raises his eyebrows.

“The ‘Dark Lord’, is he? Old habits die hard.” Draco feels himself flush in both embarrassment and anger.

“Leave it out, will you?” he says harshly. “This isn’t what I’m here to discuss.”

“No, we’re here to discuss old Death Eater chums of yours that are murdering Muggles across Europe,” Weasley says.

“Dolohov wouldn’t know what a rune was if it smacked him upside the head,” Draco says angrily. “It’s not him."

“Are you sure?” Weasley says, looking at Draco in an almost calculating manner.

“I’m sure,” Draco says curtly. He tries hard not to remember those years, but he recalls Dolohov coming to Draco for help on some simple OWL-level runes found on a tombstone.

“Shame,” Weasley says, sighing and Vanishing the picture of Dolohov from the wall. “It would have been an easy solution.”

“Right, blame the Death Eater,” Draco says, temper rising. “Yeah, easy solution, don’t worry about whether he’s guilty or not. Are you an Auror or a trained monkey?”

“I’m someone who could easily put you in Azkaban,” Weasley says threateningly. Draco’s fury spikes.

“I was tried,” he says, irate.

“Harry saved you.”

“You’re a fucking git,” Draco spits. Weasley glowers back at him.

“You’re a Death Eater,” he says stiffly.

“What’s your problem?” Draco says, clenching his fists by his side. “Why the fuck can’t you just-”

“Just what?” Weasley says angrily, slamming his papers down on his lap. “Just forget about it? Forget you spent a whole year trying to let your Death Eater mates into the school to kill Dumbledore? Forget your family tried to sell us all to You-Know-Who? Forget your role in the War? I can maybe forgive you one day, Malfoy, but I can’t _ever_ fucking trust you.”

And that’s it. All of Draco’s anger is suddenly knocked out of him like a rush of wind. Weasley’s right not to trust him. Draco spent his teenage years working for arguably the darkest wizard in history, out of pure fear and self-preservation, while Weasley, Granger and Potter worked tirelessly to stop him, giving up whatever had to be given up along the way. Weasley’s point isn’t even that he doesn’t like Draco – which is evident – but that he can’t _trust_ him. He can’t treat Draco without any suspicion, because Draco’s never given him any reason to show that he should.

“You don’t have to trust me,” Draco says tiredly. “You just have to work with me.”

“Fine,” Weasley says coldly. “Five and seven – or, well, I suppose six, now – are the main suspects. Both have a solid background in runes – five got an O in his Ancient Runes OWL and six did it at NEWT level.”

“I think the rune could be a curse,” Draco says tightly, Summoning the manuscript and thrusting it at Weasley harder than strictly necessary (although, he supposes, the boundaries for ‘necessary’ are slightly different with Weasley than with other people).

“Well, that’s at least a start,” Weasley mutters, flipping through the pages. Draco’s not sure what for – it’s an old manuscript half written in runes itself, and he’s fairly sure Weasley didn’t take Ancient Runes at Hogwarts. He would have remembered a presence as irritating as that in class.

“So far, however, I’ve only found evidence that says the use of runes in curses requires them to be etched into or somehow touching the victim,” Draco says. Weasley frowns.

“Have I given you the autopsy reports?” he asks. Draco blinks.

“The what?” he says.

“Autopsy,” Weasley says, and there’s a note of smugness in his voice. “It’s something that special Muggle doctors do. I think they call themselves patholifists.”

“Right,” Draco says, “and it’s what, exactly?"

“They cut open the corpses after death and make notes on what killed them,” Weasley says. Draco wrinkles his nose. How disgusting.

“No, I haven’t got those reports,” he says. “Have the bodies been _properly_ examined?”

“You mean, magically examined?” Weasley says. “Yes. But actually, it’s not as thorough as an autopsy. We don’t _look_ at the body because we have the spells to examine it for us, so we miss some things.”  
  
“Fascinating,” Draco says. “Can I have those reports, then?” Weasley glowers at him.

“I’ll send them up with the suspect files,” he snaps, and Draco takes that as his cue to (finally) leave.

How on _Earth_ Potter is friends with Weasley is beyond him.

 

-

 

Draco finds himself back outside Potter’s bookshop on Tuesday evening. It’s been a shitty day, poring over page after page of suspect files, combing the autopsy results for the slightest hint of a rune and having to pause every four words to look up a blasted acronym or abbreviation or medical term that he doesn’t understand. He’s barely made a dent in the autopsies because of the length of time it takes him to get through every sentence.

He doesn’t even think about going to Potter’s bookshop, too lost in his thoughts to realise he’s walked past the marble fireplaces that would Floo him back home until he’s almost at the surface of Muggle London. He decides not to double back, however, but to get to a non-protected area and Apparate back into the little alleyway where Potter’s shop is. After all, Potter _had_ said he’d show Draco around, hadn’t he? And he hadn’t specified when, so how is Draco to know that he hadn’t meant at eight p.m. on a bitterly cold Tuesday evening?

Potter’s shop is still lit up, so Draco tries the door and is surprised when it opens.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” Potter’s voice calls. Draco steps in, shutting the door behind him, and sees Potter with his back to Draco, bent slightly over the raised desk at the back of the shop.

“Even for mortal enemies?” Draco asks, and Potter whips around, a look of surprise on his face. His hair is even more tousled than usual, which Draco hadn’t held for possible, and he’s dressed in an oversized knitted jumper and jeans. Draco would rather die than admit it out loud, but he looks…attractive.

“Malfoy?” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“I just- was in the area,” he says evasively, waving his hand. “Wondered if you had time for a drink.” Potter looks at him for a second, and Draco gets that oddly exposed feeling again. He shivers involuntarily – he’s not sure he likes that.

Then Potter smiles. “Sure,” he says. “Let me just finish up here.” Draco takes a few steps further into the bookshop and rubs his hands together, trying to let the warmth envelop him.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Potter sighs.

“The accounts,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair as he casts a look down at the book lying open on the desk. “Only, you know, we stop learning maths at age eleven, so I’m slightly limited.” Draco walks over, and Potter pushes the book so Draco can get a better look at it.

“Mother forced me to continue with maths outside of school,” he says. “I could give you a hand.” Potter frowns.

“Why?” he asks.

“Well, because you’re clearly incapable,” Draco says, not sure where the confusion lies.

“No,” Potter says, “I mean, why did she make you carry on with maths?" 

“The Malfoy estate would one day have been mine to run,” Draco says. There’s a moment of silence, hanging over them so heavily that it’s almost audible.

“Yeah,” Potter says after a while. “I guess that makes sense, then. Anyway, it would be great if you could look this over for me.” Draco nods, wanting the moment to pass as swiftly as possible, and pulls the book towards him. It takes him a few minutes, flicking through the pages to check he hasn’t missed anything because Potter does the most haphazard accounting, before nodding.

“This should balance,” he says. Relief floods Potter’s face. “You should probably figure out a better system to write it down, though.”

“Yeah, I know,” Potter says, shutting the book and stuffing it behind the desk. Draco tries hard not to watch as his jumper rides up, exposing a sliver of smooth-looking skin. “Hermione’s always telling me to just switch to computers, but I never had any experience with them.”

“But you grew up with Muggles,” Draco says. Potter gives him a pained look.

“Yeah, but not just any Muggles,” he says. “The Dursleys.” He says it with such vitriol that Draco wonders if it’s some kind of Muggle metaphor. Potter must have sensed his confusion, because he elaborates: “My mother’s sister and her family. They weren’t the fondest of me.” That’s news to Draco. Someone not being fond of the beloved Saviour, the Boy Who Lived Not Just Once But Twice? He’s not experienced that in a long time.

“Oh,” Draco says, because he has no idea what else to say, and Potter laughs.

“Come on, then,” he says, grabbing his coat from behind the desk. “All the good seats will be taken.”

 

-

 

The good seats _are_ all taken when they get to the pub. They end up squished into a small booth in a dark corner of the pub, so uncomfortably close their knees are touching. Draco tries not to think about that 

“How’s the rune murder case going?” Potter asks after a swig of his beer. Draco frowns at him. He’s never mentioned that to Potter.

“I’ve never mentioned that to you,” he says.

“Ron did,” Potter says, and if Draco’s eyes (and the poor lighting) aren’t betraying him, Potter’s cheeks look a little red. Huh.

“Of course he did,” Draco mutters, staring down at his beer. He wonders just what else Weasley has told Potter.

“We don’t have to talk about work,” Potter says.

“Yes, I’d rather not,” Draco says. “It’s almost all I think about these days.” Potter hums in assent, and they lapse into silence.

“Do you miss the wizarding world?” Draco blurts after a while. Potter shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says, staring down at his drink. “A lot.”

“Do you _like_ the Muggle world?” Another shrug.

“It’s alright, I guess,” Potter says. “Nothing really matches up to magic when you’ve experienced it, though. Unless you’re Mr Weasley,” he adds.

“Which one?” Draco asks, and Potter grins.

“Arthur,” he says. “He _loves_ Muggle things. Thinks they’re absolutely fascinating. Nothing better in the world than the Muggle postal system in his eyes, except maybe electricity." 

“Well, I mean, as a pureblood you grow up knowing nothing _but_ magic,” Draco says. “So the Muggle world is what seems exotic and exciting, you know, with its intynet and transport and stuff. Magic is mundane.” Potter gives him a curious look, and Draco hurriedly adds, “you know, for context. On why Arthur Weasley might feel like that.”

“Do _you_ feel like that?” Potter asks.

“No,” Draco says immediately.

“Do you know anything about the Muggle world?”

“A bit,” Draco says defensively. “I didn’t grow up in a cave, you know.”

“I know,” Potter says evenly. “I’ve been to your manor.” Draco’s heart skips a beat. He really doesn’t need reminding of the time Potter saw the manor.

“Well, it’s not my manor anymore,” he says as casually as he can, raising his drink to his lips to avoid having to speak any further. Potter inclines his head.

“Better manor-less and free than in Azkaban,” he says, and he pauses for a moment, biting his lip, before adding: “how’s your father?” Draco almost splutters into his drink, and Potter definitely notices, because he backtracks quickly. “Sorry, it’s a personal question, I’m just used to us saying anything to each other and didn’t think-” but Draco waves the apology away. This feeling of being able to say anything to Potter without judgement is what Draco  _needs_ , giving him the positive social interaction he so desperately craves. It’s certainly why he keeps seeking out Potter’s company, and absolutely nothing to do with the way that Potter’s earnest yet shrewd green eyes blink at him from behind his wire-rim glasses.

“I don’t know,” Draco admits. “I don’t speak to him.” Potter blinks.

“Oh,” he says, clearly stumped. “Right. Well.”

“I just- you know. What he put us through,” Draco says, feeling like he should explain himself.

“You had a choice,” Potter says, but it’s not unkind. The words still sting, though, like salt in the wound that Draco’s tried desperately to heal for the past five years. But Draco’s not a Healer, and the wound stays open.

“You make it sound so easy,” Draco says miserably.

“It was never easy,” Potter says. “But it was what was right.”

“I know that now,” Draco says, and hesitates before adding, “I knew it then, deep down. But…my family. I’m a Slytherin. Self-preservation includes my family. I did what I thought would…would save them. Us.” Potter’s still looking at him with those discerning green eyes, and Draco sighs. “You don’t know what it’s like. You’re always saving other people, never yourself.” Potter says nothing for a moment, then:

“The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin, you know.” Draco feels his eyes widen. Potter, a _Slytherin_?

“Come off it,” he says, forcing a laugh, figuring this must be some twisted joke.

“I’m serious,” Potter says. “I only got placed in Gryffindor because I asked to be. Well, technically I just asked not to be placed in Slytherin.”

“Oh, thanks,” Draco says sarcastically. Potter grins.

“No problem,” he says. Draco pauses.

“You’re serious,” he says after a moment, when Potter doesn’t start laughing and tell Draco it’s all a joke, what an _idiot_ he is for falling for it. Potter nods. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Potter says with a sigh. “After the war, I thought it might be because of- well.” He takes a deep breath. “There’s a lot about that time that you don’t know about. That no one knows about, except Ron and Hermione."

“Like where you went in seventh year,” Draco supplies. Potter nods. “Well, I just figured you were smart enough to hide from the D-” he cuts himself off, flushing, as he thinks about his conversation with Weasley yesterday. “From You-Know-Who."

“I mean, that was a part of it,” Potter admits. “I wasn’t exactly keen for Voldemort to know my whereabouts.” Draco shivers involuntarily. Potter’s nonchalance with using the Dark Lord’s name has always rattled him.

“But the rest is a secret?” he says. Potter tilts his head and looks at Draco.

“It is for now,” he says. “It’s not a time I’m keen to relive.”

“Nor I,” Draco says, with a humourless laugh.

“It’s getting late,” Potter says, “we should go. Come round again during the day if you have time, though, and I’ll show you around Muggle London like I said.” Privately, Draco quite enjoys their pub evenings (even if he doesn’t enjoy the drinks), but he nods.

They wrap up and head outside, standing there for an awkward moment as they figure out how to say their goodbyes. 

“Well, I’ll see you soon, maybe,” Potter says eventually. Draco nods.

“Goodbye,” he says, and he starts to walk away.

“Wait,” Potter says through his thick scarf. Draco turns back around. “You should write to your father.” His eyes look sad, but Draco doesn’t have time to think of a response before Potter’s turned around and been swallowed by the Muggle crowd.

 

-

 

Draco catches a break on Thursday morning. 

The autopsy results that he’s finally managed to trawl through have offered him nothing, nor have the suspect files that the Auror Office keep updating faster than Draco can read them. To Draco’s satisfaction, he strikes gold in a Dark book on runes, ordered from the archives with special permission from the Auror Office. 

(“Are you sure it’s wise to give Mr Malfoy such a book?” the archivist had said to Weasley, not bothering to lower her voice.

“Don’t worry, if you turn up dead with a rune carved into you we’ll know who did it,” Weasley had said, patting her on the arm. She had managed to look even more affronted.)

“Eduardo,” he says hurriedly, “I think I’ve got something.” Eduardo looks up sharply from the book he’s got his nose in.

“What?” he says, standing up swiftly and walking over to peer over Draco’s shoulder.

“Here,” Draco says, pointing out a passage. “That runes can be used to create powerful curses in combination with arithmancy, and some ancient magic. A certain number of runes at a certain number of locations, or- or certain number of _something_ , can create a curse.”

“Good,” Eduardo says, a note of excitement in his voice, “and the deaths?” Draco points to a passage on the previous page. 

“Blood sacrifice,” he says. Eduardo stiffens, then straightens up.

“That’s in the autopsy results,” he says. Draco’s moment of elation is stifled slightly by the mention of the bloody autopsy results.

“What?” he says.

“All of them had deliberate cuts,” Eduardo says.

“They were all AK’d, no need to do that for blood,” Draco says. “Who’s going to believe a Muggle if they go around saying ‘a wizard cut my arm for a blood sacrifice’?”

“How old is this magic?” Eduardo asks. Draco skims the page, but there’s no indication.

“I don’t know, ancient, I’d imagine,” he says. “Why?”

“Is it…perhaps…virgin blood?” Eduardo says delicately. Draco blinks.

“How am I supposed to know?” he says, baffled.

“Perhaps Mr Weasley will know,” Eduardo says pointedly.

Draco’s day, which had started off so promisingly, is suddenly ruined.

 

-

 

“You want to know _what_?” Weasley says, quite reasonably, in Draco’s opinion.

“I don’t know, Eduardo thought it could be a possibility given how old the magic is,” Draco says.

“But _everyone_ knows that virgin blood is no different,” Weasley says, now more bemused than anything. Draco rolls his eyes. 

“Everyone knows that _now_ ,” he says.

“Well, I mean, we can ask around, but…what the fuck,” Weasley sighs. Draco wholeheartedly agrees.

 

-

 

Draco doesn’t make it out of the office until late on Thursday evening, spending all day poring over any Dark works on runic curses he, Miraphora and Eduardo can get permission to get out of the archives, but he Apparates straight into Potter’s bookshop. Who better to ask about books than a bookshop owner?

“Fucking Christ,” Potter says, after a small yelp when Draco appeared out of nowhere.

“Hello,” Draco says politely.

“Don’t do that,” Potter says. “What if I’d had a customer?”

“At eight thirty?” Draco says. “You probably shut at what, seven?”

“That’s not the point,” Potter mumbles. “What are you here for, besides scaring the living daylights out of me?”

“I wanted to ask if you sell non-Muggle books,” Draco says, and if he didn’t know any better he could have sworn Potter looks disappointed. He wonders whether perhaps Potter wants him to buy a Muggle book. _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ had been a good one, if he recalls correctly.

“Not officially, for obvious reasons,” Potter asks, and then suspiciously, “why?”

“Very much off the record, for the rune murders,” Draco says. “We think we’ve found something.” Potter raises his eyebrows, and then takes off into a corner of the shop, beckoning for Draco to follow. Draco complies.

“I keep some things in the back here,” he says. “I read them when business is slow.” He leads Draco over to a small wooden door built into a bookcase at the back of the shop, opening the door and ushering Draco inside. It’s a small room, with more floor to ceiling bookcases like those in the shop, but this time filled with parchments, manuscripts and what Draco can tell are wizarding books, rather than Muggle.

“Where did you get all this?” Draco asks, touching the spine of a nearby book.

“Sirius left me his house in his will,” Potter says. “The Black family had a veritable collection of magical works.” Draco’s heart skips a beat.

“Sirius Black? The Black family, as in, my cousins?” Potter frowns, and nods. Oh, but this is so _good_. There will be _hundreds_ of forbidden Dark works here, which may contain leads on this case. 

“Yeah,” Potter says. “Are you looking for Dark books?”

“Not exclusively,” Draco says, taking a few steps further into the small room and eyeing the titles in front of him. “Anything that could help.”

“Well, the Dark stuff is still at home,” Potter says. Of course it is. Perfect Potter wouldn’t read any Dark magic. “But really, if I’m going to be of any help to you, I have to know what you need.”

Draco bites his lip. For obvious reasons, telling people outside of cases details of the case is _strictly_ forbidden. But on the other hand, Potter might very well be in possession of the last collection of Dark works in Britain and able to help. Plus, he’s _Potter_. What harm is going to come from giving the blessed Saviour information? It’s not like he’s going to do anything bad with it.

“Right,” he says, casting a silent _Muffliato_. He’s learnt the hard way that one can never be too safe. “I need to know about blood sacrifices, the use of virgin blood, and runic curses used with arithmancy.” Potter looks startled.

“Okay,” he says. “You probably won’t find anything on blood sacrifices in here. That’ll be at home.” Draco’s not sure what Potter’s trying to say here. Is this an invitation to his house, or will he bring them to the shop?

“And the runic curses used with arithmancy?” Potter huffs out a laugh.

“Quite frankly, I have no idea what that means,” he says. “Hermione’s the one that knows runes and arithmancy. And books,” he tacks on as an afterthought.

“You know books,” Draco says. “You own a bookshop.” Potter smiles, a bright, small smile that lights up his eyes and makes his eyes crinkle in the corners in that way Draco is coming to know.

“I’ll have a look with Kreacher tomorrow night,” Potter promises. “I’ll let you know if I find anything."

“How?” Draco asks, wondering who on Earth Kreacher might be.

“I have an owl,” Potter says.

“I thought she died,” Draco says, then stops when he sees Potter’s face. “Sorry, I didn’t-”

“It’s okay,” Potter says. “Lots of people – and animals, I guess – died.” Draco’s not sure what to say to that, so he says nothing. “Anyway. I’ll send my owl if I find something.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I’ll send my owl anyway, just to get your hopes up.” Draco scowls. 

“I’ll send you back a Howler,” he threatens.

“I look forward to your dulcet tones,” Potter says, grinning.

 

-

 

It’s midnight, and Draco’s in his small flat just off Diagon Alley, hunched over his desk with a parchment and quill. He hasn’t been able to get Potter’s parting words to him on Tuesday out of his head in the three days since he heard them spoken.

 _You should write to your father._ But what does he have to _say_?  _Dear Father, fuck you for ruining my entire future_? _Dear Father, thanks for following a megalomaniac dark wizard into defeat twice_?

Yes, Draco’s bitter. And yes, he _did_ have a choice. But to Draco, when there’s a choice between his family and what’s good or what’s right, there is no choice. He will always choose his family – or, at least, he would have. He doesn’t know if he still would.

He supposes it’s best to start off with the truth. Perhaps it will close the gaping wound a little, to get it off his chest. After all, he doesn’t have to send it. He doesn’t _have_ to talk to Father.

 _Dear Father,_ he starts. _There’s a reason I haven’t written to you in all these years. I’ve been angry at you for what you did to me. I was a bright child. I could have done so much with myself. Now, I’m relegated to a menial Ministry job with two friends to speak of in the entire world who only contact me once every few months. I ruined myself saving you._

_I’m angry that you’re not here to suffer with me. I’m angry at what my life has become through following you and your grandiose desires. I’m angry that I have to unlearn all of the bigotry you imparted upon me. I’m angry that you’re my father, and that I bear the Malfoy name. I’m so furious with you, even after all these years._

Draco doesn’t realise he’s crying until a tear hits the page, eating up the ink of his words as it spreads. It’s so much easier to pretend Father doesn’t exist. Thinking about him is so painful because despite all of it, despite what he did, and all of Draco’s anger, he still loves him.

 _Love, Draco._  


End file.
